Reaper
by Arithilim
Summary: Oh how far the mighty have fallen indeed." A lonely night, a man, and a waiting gun. Written for The Firm's Prompt Challenge - April.


**A/N: Written for The Firm's April 2009 Prompt Challenge (Reaper). **

**This fic was inspired by Coldplay's Viva la Vida. If you know the lyrics, hopefully it'll enhance this story ^_^ **

**A thank you to all the brilliant people at The Firm who thought up this whole prompt challenge idea - you guys are all crazy :D A thank you to Nyxie for looking it over and bolstering my confidence that my Blunt does not in fact totally suck. And a huge thank you to Jusmine, who not only co-runs The Firm (and thus the prompt challenge) but also betaed this for me.**

**And I'd just like to say, no, I haven't abandoned Close Protection. Yes, I'm writing the next chapter. No, it's not the next thing I'll post. *shrug* I'm ADD - I work better while writing many things at once.**

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**reap⋅er**

_1. One who reaps_

**1. reap**

_to get as a return, recompense, or result: to reap large profits._

Alan Blunt stepped out on the street, pulling the collar of his overcoat up to shield his face. It was raining hard, the falling drops blurring the streetlights. He reached his destination, and descended the few steps through a door and into a vestibule. Water ran off him in rivulets as he took off his coat and shook it out before stepping farther into the pub.

It was dim and smoky, grungy around the edges and far from polished - the perfect place to disappear for a while. He got himself a drink and took a seat, his posture defeated, a sight far from unusual in that place. It wasn't where one went to celebrate. It was a place where dreams went to die a slow painful death, drowned in misery and alcohol.

The telly in the corner was on, the evening news or the like. A blonde woman was busy reporting on the latest murder in central London. Any second now it would be on. It'd been about just the right time for it to get out to the news stations and a segment to be prepared. There would be no delays this time. This was far too big to cover up. His one last moment of greatness.

It was amazing how fast fortune could change - he knew that better than anyone. Wasn't that what espionage was all about? One decisive moment after another? It seemed a lofty statement appropriate for saving for his memoirs, except now there would be no memoirs. In its ever volatile nature, the intelligence world that he had commanded so long had spat him back up.

The telly flashed, a bright screen with "Special Report" emblazoned over the Union Jack coming up. This was it, then. The end. He felt strangely numb. Outrage and passion had fled long ago, leaving nothing but tired acceptance and cold, cold reason.

The man on the screen began to talk, the captions below delayed by a good five seconds.

"_It has just been revealed that a huge conspiracy within MI6 has been operating independently from the rest of the organization. The Special Operations division, originally said to have been dissolved following WWII, was apparently live and running as of yesterday. Headed by Alan Blunt, senior officer and veteran of....This organization has been accused of many intolerable acts, including the use and blackmail of a fourteen year old boy...while the accusations have not yet been validated, the evidence appears overwhelming. The Chief of MI6 denies any knowledge or involvement...Mr. Blunt could not be reached for comment._"

He turned away from the screen and took a long drink from his glass. Intolerable acts - he'd give them intolerable acts. Intolerable acts were massacres in London. These people simply could not comprehend the world he'd immersed himself in for forty years. The ends had to justify the means. Otherwise, truly intolerable acts would happen everyday. These people with their safe desk jobs and ordinary, happy families could never understand. His world was dark. It was ugly and it was messy. How dare they attempt to judge those in it, to condemn the very necessary steps that kept them safe? Righteous anger flared one last time and died. He was too tired to care any more.

It didn't matter anyway. His time here had run out. He would finish this drink and go, back to the safe house he'd set up. There was a gun waiting with a single bullet: his reward for a lifetime of lies and sins. This would end tonight.

It wasn't a matter of revenge or poetry. No, it was simply cold, hard logic. Right now, a team was being deployed, tasked with his elimination, he was sure of it. They'd be out for blood. No doubt the Chief was awaiting his head on a silver platter so he could present it to the PM. He'd seen too much, knew too much, and certainly he'd fucked up in far too big a way.

The situation was more than a little ironic, he supposed, staring into the amber liquid swirling in the glass. Less than two days ago, it would have been him on the other side of the desk, making the call to end a man's life. The hunter becomes the hunted. Oh how far the mighty have fallen indeed.

There was no way to escape this with his life, and really, it wasn't even worth trying. He'd had his run, but if he'd learned anything, it was when it was time to cut his losses and give up. And call him controlling, but he'd rather die by his own hand than in some fabricated accident.

There, he'd said it. Death. He was going to die tonight. The cold, stark truth stared him in the face, and he couldn't even bring himself to be that upset. They'd thought him a cold-hearted bastard - oh yes, he knew what his staff whispered where they thought no ears could hear. They were right. Not even for his own death could he bring himself to be moved.

This was murder's recompense. With every man you coldly watched die, a piece of your humanity died too. Death lost its glamor. You realized the bitter end of mortality for what it was - the inescapable conclusion to a world of pain. One man's death blended into another's, the distinction between person, and place, and time blurred until these once ever so critical details became insignificant. Death was death. Whether it was today or ten years from now, whether it was the man on the left or the man on the right, or even you - these things were trivial. _Everyone_ died in the end.

And tonight, he would add his soul to the mass grave. He took another swig of his drink.

He finished and stood, putting on his coat and leaving the pub. The street was empty, just his solitary figure alone with the rain, moving to the waiting gun. That he should face death this way, alone and so defeated, seemed bitterly perfect. How many men had he condemned to the same end? Yes, there would be no heaven, no mercy for him tonight. He was the reaper and it was time to face his reward.

_"How long? Not long, cause what you reap is what you sow!" - Rage Against the Machine_

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